


Fate is a Fickle Thing

by A_Harlow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Hell, Purgatory, Reader Insert, Torture, scarred reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:36:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3636933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Harlow/pseuds/A_Harlow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Y/n) is dealing with the after affects of having been sent to hell for 13 months (130 years in hell time) when she meets the Winchesters. They take a while to warm up to each other but she eventually forms a strong bond with all the members of TFW. Especially Dean. By the time she realizes that Dean was one of the people who tortured her in hell, they're already in a relationship. Both she and Dean try to figure out a way to forgive themselves and each other or lose it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fate is a Fickle Thing

**Author's Note:**

> I just started writing this fic so I'm not 100% sure where exactly its going. I'll try to update regularly. I would loooove some feedback (good or bad). This chapter is just about setting up the Reader's character. I promise there will be more dialogue and action in the future.
> 
> (y/m/n) = your mother's name

You opened the door to the motel room, walked in and took a deep breath. It smelled familiar, like mildew and stale air. Like home.

You grew up a hunter’s daughter- your father long gone, your mother moving from state to state, killing monsters most people didn’t know existed. Motel rooms were the only place you had to call your own, even if it was just for a short while.

You hadn’t had an easy childhood. There were no barbies, no frilly dresses, no friends; none of the defining aspects of a normal girlhood. But your mother trained you well, just like her mother had trained her. She taught you how to shoot, how to fight, how to gather information, how to kill. And now, with her gone and buried, hunting was the only thing you had left.

After closing the door, you sat down at the small table and waited for your laptop to wake from its slumber. Your thoughts drifted to the guy who checked you in. He was cute. _Really_ cute.  All doe eyed and plump lipped. And he made it pretty clear he was interested. But you knew the minute he saw your scars, the lust in his eyes would fade and be replaced with pity. Or disgust. You didn’t know which was worse.

The large, raised lashes across your back served as a reminder of your time in hell. You had sold your soul for a noble cause; for your mother’s life. Cancer was slowly chipping at her will to live. She was a force of nature, a rough, strong-willed woman who had never backed down from a fight. After seeing her so frail and bone thin, you decided that this kind of death was not for her.

So you went to a crossroad and summoned a demon. Demons were familiar with the (y/l/n) family. You came from a long line of hunters, all of whom had taken down their fair share of black-eyed monsters. You knew you weren’t going to get a fair deal and you didn’t care, not as long as your mother was safe and cancer free. So you traded. One month for her life.

Saying your mother was pissed would be the understatement of the century. You had never seen someone so livid at being told they were cancer-free. You know she later tried to sell her soul for yours, tried to save her only child, her legacy. But you also knew no demon would deal. Living without you was far more painful than anything they could do to her.

So one month later, the hellhounds came and ripped you to pieces. You had made your mother promise to give you a hunter’s funeral. To spread your ashes in a pretty place. You wanted to spend eternity nestled among flowers and tall grass. But she refused, saying you needed your body for when she brought you back.

And she did bring you back.

It took her 13 months to convince a reaper to take her to purgatory and lead her into hell. You remember seeing her face when she found you. Relief and joy written in her features. But you had seen that same face over and over again for the past 130 years.

That was part of the torture. Making you think you were being saved; that you no longer had to endure Alistair and his prodigies. Souls who had been too weak to bear being cut apart and put back together every day.

You knew better than to go with her. You knew she would lead you back to the stone chamber, back to Alistair. But this version of your mother was so authentic, you couldn’t resist.

You had spent months with her in the cancer ward. You had memorized every wrinkle on her face, every freckle on her nose, and this demon had mirrored them perfectly. So you followed her down the darkened corridor and promised yourself that this was the last time you would give in.

Imagine your surprise when she led you to purgatory. You remember falling to your knees and crying. The demons had never taken you out of hell. You had once gone right to the gates, only to be told that the ruse was over; no soul could actually leave. You knew this time it was for real.

You fought your way through purgatory with your mother and for the first time in a long time, you felt like yourself, like the warrior you were raised to be. When your soul was returned to your body, all the marks were gone. All except the ones carved into your back by Alistair’s favorite pet. You didn’t know his name and his face was a blur. All you knew was that he had special knives, the kind that made marks even Alistair couldn’t heal.

He wouldn’t cut you with them often and only ever on your back. He said he wanted you to stay pretty for him. For the nights he hurt you in a different way, a more lasting way.

Those scars screamed shame so loud you couldn’t bear to let anyone see them. You wondered if you would ever know what it felt like to be loved like that again.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a very distinctive ringtone. One that signified Bobby Singer was calling. Bobby was your mother’s “special friend”. He had been a constant presence in your life growing up. Sometimes you went years without seeing him, but when you met again, it seemed like no time had passed.

You knew he was taking your mother’s death hard. She had only been gone for two months. He offered to let you stay with him, at least until you found your bearings, but seeing his face only reminded you of her. And so you left.

He was the one who sent you out here. A nest of vampires was devastating this small Ohio town. They had already drained 5 victims before Bobby caught wind of the story.

“Heya (y/n), found anything yet?”

 

*****************

 

“Not yet Bobby. This place is your typical backwoods town. One bar, one hospital, one motel, a ton of abandoned farms. I’ll flush ‘em out eventually”.

Bobby could sense the confidence in your voice. He knew this was the only thing that brought you any solace since (y/m/n) had died. Hunting was the one thing you knew how to do, and you did it well. 

He remembered when you got back from hell. (Y/m/n) had insisted on you starting right where you left off. She thought hunting would help you heal, killing would quench the anger. She didn’t believe in therapeutic breaks or talking things out. And neither did you. You just drowned the memories in hard liquor and put on a brave face. 

He still couldn’t believe that two of the three people he considered his kids had gone down under on the same day. You and Dean had never met, but as far as Bobby was concerned, you were both idjits for selling your souls. Dean came back four months later, but it took much longer to get you out. Bobby knew that both of you had left pieces of yourselves down in hell. 

He couldn’t do much to help you, so he found you cases. Not that you couldn’t find your own, but he knew that asking you to go personally made you feel needed.

“All right, well you give a shout when you find out how big this nest is. Lemme know if you need backup, kid”. He said his goodbyes knowing you would never accept his offer. You thought you could do everything yourself.

But Bobby was worried that you had become reckless since (y/m/n) died. You were a skilled hunter, no doubt about it, but just last month you had rushed into a wendigo cave, flare gun half cocked and unprepared to take on both creatures. You had barely made it out of there alive.

So he decided to call the boys.


End file.
